


A View of Pamplona

by Vivien



Category: A Room With a View - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivien/pseuds/Vivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil Vyse fancied himself an observer now. He watched the world, but he was no longer of it.  In Pamplona in July, there was much to watch.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A View of Pamplona

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Lynette, for your encouragement and reminders that I can be as overwrought as Cecil.
> 
> Written for calliope85

 

 

I. The Festival of San Fermin

Spain was not at all like Italy.

That was one reason Cecil was there. It was most certainly not a place to see and be seen. In the three years since his break with Lucy Honeychurch, and her subsequent scandalous elopement, Cecil did not _wish_ to see or be seen. He was a different man than he had once been, no longer full of the certain confidence that everything in his life was set before him for the taking.

Cecil wandered the Continent now. He would go anywhere but Italy, and the loss of the country he had once loved ached much more than the loss of his fiancée. He was grateful now, truly, for her actions, though the memory of his dismissal from Windy Corner still stung like nettles. Had they married, she could never have been what he hoped; he could not have been what she desired. It was better, truly, that they had gone their separate ways. But he could never return to Italy, and take the chance of running headlong into old memories, or Lucy herself.

He avoided London society for the same reasons. His old haunts and associates had lost their flavors. He sought out new experiences, new faces, new ways to see the world. He was still an intellectual, and thoughts bombarded him from all sides. It kept his head busy, though his tongue, in countries in which he did not know the language, was still.

He fancied himself an observer now. He watched the world, but he was no longer of it. In Pamplona in July, there was much to watch.

This was his second visit to the Festival of San Fermin. The first had been a sheer accident; he had never heard of such a thing before. Wild bulls running down the crowded streets, bronze-skinned youths dashing in and out between the beasts - the spectacle had made his heart race. It was a celebration of the pagan spirit, an unsullied, vital link to the times of ancients.

Cecil himself would never deign to participate. Athletic demonstrations were not for the likes of him. Unlike his experiences watching dreary games of lawn tennis, however, watching the young men shout and run and dodge made _him_ want to shout and leap with excitement himself. He did not, of course, but for the first time since Lucy, he had felt somewhat alive and aware.

Today he walked the streets of Pamplona, thinking and watching and yearning. For Cecil, there was always yearning, but he knew not for what.

As he turned a corner, he heard English voices. They grated on his ears. He nearly turned and went back the way he came. Instead he froze upon recognizing a voice.

It was Freddy Honeychurch. How on earth-?

Cecil would never have imagined a meeting with his fiancée's younger brother whilst abroad. What should he do? Run? Ignore him?

He did nothing; he was in too much shock to take action. 

Freddy, on the other hand, smiled hugely at the sight of Cecil and approached him straightaway. "Can it be? Vyse, old man, how the ruddy hell did you find out about the Running of the Bulls?" Freddy asked, clapping Cecil on the back with much more enthusiasm than Cecil was prepared for. 

"I daresay the same as you," Cecil said, straightening his coat after stumbling slightly. "I do read books."

"I never thought you'd be the type to come to Spain. I thought Italy was your second home."

Coming from any other person, this would be a slap in the face. But somehow, Freddy Honeychurch's open face conveyed nothing but friendliness and goodwill. 

"One must grow and change, mustn't one?" he said, and he noted the amused looks exchanged by the two friends behind Freddy's back. He winced inwardly. He was ridiculous. He had simply never realized it before Lucy had torn the veil from his eyes.

Freddy did not smirk or laugh. He nodded his head. "Yes, indeed, one must. Say, why don't you join us? We're going to the café by the Plaza de Toros to fortify our courage for tomorrow."

"For tomorrow?" Cecil inquired, cocking his head. Once he would have deemed Freddy's company below his notice. He was such a jocular fellow, always laughing, speaking in the vulgarities of youth. Now he seemed full of life to Cecil. Vital. Exciting.

"We're running with the bulls," said one of the young men behind Freddy. "I'm Floyd," he said, reaching out his right hand. "This is Atherton." Floyd nodded his head towards the other young man.

Once hands were shaken, Freddy said, "Do come with us, if you like. We're all a long way from home."

"Alright," said Cecil, despite his first instinct to decline. "I think I should like that."

He found that he did. The boys were all of good families, if not quite good enough for Cecil's old standards, and their company exuberant. Once he had a few scotches in him, he actually laughed. Heartily, even. 

Somehow he ended up singing in the streets as Freddy supported him on the walk to his inn. Freddy made sure Cecil got inside his room, taught him another verse of the slightly bawdy song they'd been singing, and then left him. As sleep took him, Cecil thought of the Honeychurch lawn on a lovely summer day, full of laughter that was so unfamiliar, but pleasing to recall.

II. Certain Disaster

The morning found Cecil, his head aching, outside amongst the throng lining the narrow streets of Pamplona. He had originally thought he would watch the event from his balcony, but he found instead that he wished to mingle with the crowd. His hotel was on Calle Estafeta, so Cecil decided to venture much closer to the route than before, to be on hand when his young countrymen ran the gauntlet. 

The crowd's cheers grew louder as the morning went on, and Cecil, tall enough to see over the heads of most, craned his neck, watching for a sign on the runners and the bulls. He heard them before they came into sight. There were panicked screams, exhilarated yells, the pounding of running feet and hooves. His heart was beating hard as the runners passed him, and then one bull, more runners, and then another of the great beasts. He saw Atherton and Floyd run by, grinning like madmen, but Freddy was not with them. He stepped forward slightly, looking for Freddy, thinking he must have run ahead.

Instead, all he saw was a massive wall of brown and then blackness.

III. In Which Cecil and Freddy Are Ensconced

When Cecil woke, he was in an unfamiliar room. He was also in a considerable amount of pain. "Dear God, what happened?" he said, touching his throbbing head and starting when he felt the bandages.

"You ran with the bulls after all, Vyse," said a familiar, if somewhat subdued, voice. 

Cecil slowly sat up in his bed. "Honeychurch?"

"You were trampled when one of the bulls charged the crowd. You have a nasty cut on your head, and the doctor said you probably have a concussion, but you'll be alright."

Freddy was in the second bed in the room. "Did you- Are you-?" Cecil began. The younger man didn't look wounded, from what he could see.

Freddy threw back his head and laughed. "I got gored. In the side. It bloody well hurts like fire, but I'll be fine. Atherton and Floyd brought us back to our inn. They'll help you get back to your room, if you'd like them to. Only they're going back to England day after tomorrow, so- The doctor says I need to heal up before traveling, and I daresay you should stay put a few days, too. Would you like to stay here with me?"

"Yes," Cecil mumbled, closing his eyes again, and sinking back into his pillow. "I don't feel like moving, much less traveling."

IV. Renaissance 

A few days turned into a fortnight, and the fortnight turned into a month. Freddy's injury was rather more serious than he had let on. The doctor - an English one, thank heavens - made his rounds to check on the young man on a regular basis. Once Cecil recovered from the worst of his shock and minor injuries, he found his role as helper and friend to be unexpected, but not unpleasant. 

Mostly he kept the younger man company. Freddy was a fine companion, Cecil discovered. They played cards. They spoke of fond memories, always being careful to avoid the subject of Lucy. Once Freddy could stand, they walked together - short, slow walks up the cobblestones where the bulls had run for the crowds.

Cecil began to pontificate once more, as the hours of their invalidity crept by. To his surprise, Freddy was not afraid to talk back, debating his points with arguments that were both passionate and well-thought out. However, the younger man also had a penchant for laughing if words got too heated. A pillow would be thrown and the argument thwarted by an "Oh, Vyse, you _do_ go on."

Cecil found he could do little but laugh in return.

On the final day of their Spanish captivity - the doctor having pronounced a thoroughly restless Freddy fit enough to travel safely - Cecil packed their things. He was the consummate traveler, after all, and knew shortcuts to ease the chore.

Freddy stood by the window, a cigarette between his fingers. "I shall miss this place, I think."

"Will you come back next year?"

Freddy shrugged and took a draw from the cigarette. "I don't know. Maybe."

"I was joking, Honeychurch," Cecil said, closing and snapping Freddy's valise. "I should think you'd had enough of Spain."

"Where are you going next?"

Cecil didn't answer. He didn't know.

"Come to Windy Corner. _Do_ come," Freddy said, turning to face Cecil. "I think you should like it much better this go round. We get on quite well, don't you think?"

"Yes, we do. But I fear Windy Corner is not the place for me." Cecil pulled a cigarette from his own case and joined Freddy at the window. They smoked in silence, watching women bustling to market on the street below, listening to the now-familiar sounds of Pamplona.

"I _shall_ miss it," Freddy said, finally, and patted Cecil's chest. "You've been a brick. Thanks for helping me. I'd have been in a terrible fix if you hadn't stayed."

"It was my pleasure. Englishmen abroad must stick together." Cecil noticed that Freddy's hand hadn't moved from his chest, and his eyes were fixed on Cecil's.

Cecil felt... odd. He couldn't explain the source of his discomfiture. He also couldn't explain why he did not, under any circumstance, wish for Freddy to move his hand.

"We could go somewhere else," Freddy said. "Anywhere, actually. I'd like that. Very much."

Cecil nodded. Before he could second guess himself, before he could _think_ , he leaned in with one quick movement, and his lips met Freddy's. Gone was the uncertain manner he had once employed with the young man's sister. A fleeting thought of that moment, and what a mess he had made of things, passed through his mind and then was gone. This- this was- his mouth _fit_ against Freddy's, his arms wrapped around the other man's body firmly, even the friction of the stubble on Freddy's cheek upon Cecil's own felt _right_. There was no fumbling or awkwardness like before.

_This_ was a kiss.

He would not - no, he could not - think upon the implications of kissing a man. Not when he was too busy basking in the glory of discovering what he had never known he missed.

Freddy pulled away from the embrace eventually, his eyes sparkling with happiness, and his hands resting on Cecil's shoulders. "I never did think you were right for my sister. Now I guess we both know why, eh?"

"We'll go anywhere you'd like, Freddy," Cecil said, and his life began anew. 

 


End file.
